


The Nephilim

by Lamia of the Dark (VisceraNight)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Mention of Past Drug Abuse, Mild Sexual Content, Romance, mention of past domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3241526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VisceraNight/pseuds/Lamia%20of%20the%20Dark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Petunia's life spirals out of control and her childhood enemy is the only one there to help her pick up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nephilim

~ The Nephilim ~

_I can start by mending your broken wings once more_.

He doesn't give voice to the thought as he trails kisses down her neck, her shoulders, her spine. His lips slowly sweep over the scars on her back, souvenirs from a long string of abusive boyfriends.

He finds it rather ironic that out of all the men she's been with,  _he_  is the one who has given her the best treatment. Considering that his personality does not lend itself well to kindness, it's actually rather sad that he's the best she can do. She doesn't come to him often, only when she's hit rock bottom and needs a pick-me-up.

He isn't good with words, he knows. He is too cynical, too sarcastic. Anything he says is likely to be the wrong thing - the one that sends her running. After the first few times, he'd learned to keep speech to the minimum, to be used only when absolutely necessary.

He communicates his worries, his care and support, through the gentle cage of his hands on her hips and the tip of his tongue as it traces the white lines of scar tissue that are the feathers of her broken angel wings. She also chooses silence over speech, but he knows her body well by now. He could find her every pleasure-spot in pitch dark by touch alone if he had to, not that she ever asks him to turn the lights out in the bedroom. He tries to stay out of her mind as much as possible, but his Legilimency has become a crutch for him in keeping this relationship (if it can even be called one) limping along - which is how he's come to know that she likes the lights on because she is afraid that in the dark he will let reality slip away from him enough to call out her sister's name instead of hers (not that he has ever done so before, but her inferiority complex runs deep).

She came back to him sooner this time than she ever has before. She has no fresh bruises this time, no new scrapes or needle tracks, no scars that he hasn't already seen before. Perhaps she is learning to spot the warning signs sooner, learning to get out while the getting is good. Learning not to settle for scraps when she knows that she could have more, that she is  _worth_  more, that there is someone waiting for her who will treat her with decency and respect if not kindness.

_Although she never seems to have any trouble leaving **me**_ , he reminds himself bitterly.

Tangled up in the sheets and each other, she calls out his name once, twice... in response he manages to rasp out " _Pet_ " before they both collapse, limbs weak and trembling in the aftermath of their mutual pleasure.

She repeats his name a third time, her voice tearful.

"Severus."

He doesn't know what emotion has filled her voice with tears; he only knows that he does not want them to fall. He gathers her into his arms and holds her tightly against him. He strokes her hair and presses a soft kiss to the top of her head, begging silently,  _Don't cry. Please don't cry_.

He hears a hitch in her breathing, as if she is fighting back sobs. Not knowing what else to do, he clutches her more tightly against him. She clings to him, burying her face against his shoulder. She draws in a shaky deep breath, which she subsequently lets out slowly. Her breathing gradually evens out. He loosens his hold on her, allowing her to settle more comfortably against him as they both begin to drift off.

Morning comes too soon.

After cleaning up himself and the bed with spells, he goes downstairs to fix breakfast while she showers. When he sets the table, he starts to set out the potions that will ease her through her withdrawal before he remembers that she does not need them this time. She's managed to stay clean for a few months; he's not sure what this means for her or for their already-tenuous future together. No longer needing his help would make her one step closer to no longer needing  _him,_  after all.

It wouldn't be fair for fate to snatch her away from him again after letting him care for her for all this time... and when  _had_  he started to care for her? Not when they were children, when she'd been jealous and bitter over her sister's magic, no. When they were teenagers and she still hadn't ever had a civil word to say to him? No, not then either. Sometime after they'd both come of age, then.

Ah, yes. Now he remembers. It was the time when he'd been over at the Evans' house for dinner, better friends now with the rat and the werewolf than he was with Lily anymore (he'd changed his ways for her, damn it, and she'd  _still_  chosen Potter over him), that first summer after Hogwarts. Petunia, having just started college that year, had come back to her parents' house for the summer. He wasn't sure whether it was drugs or bulimia that had sent her rushing from the dinner table to the upstairs bathroom in the middle of the meal, but neither her family nor any of "The Marauders" had seemed overly concerned with her sudden exit. He'd been the one to go after her, the one to hold her hair back while she heaved up the contents of her stomach, the one who saw the bruises on the back of her neck and recognized them for what they were - signs of abuse. She'd begged him not to tell Lily; her perfect sister couldn't know that she was in an abusive relationship.

She'd ended up flunking out of college in her second year, due more to the drugs she was taking than anything else, although he was certain that the never-ending chain of abusive relationships did not help matters. Her parents had thrown her out of the house after they found out about the drugs, and (as far as he knew) she had not seen them since then.

He is drawn out of his reminiscence by her arrival in the kitchen. She is dressed in her own clothes, apparently having had the forethought to pack some this time instead of showing up on his doorstep with nothing as she had so often in the past.

She sits at the place he has laid out for her and begins eating without waiting for him to join her. Breakfast is carried on in silence but for the scraping of spoons and clinking of cups. When the food is gone and they are lingering over coffee, she finally breaks the silence.

"I saw Lily yesterday." She pauses to accommodate his reaction but he doesn't know how to respond to this piece of information. She continues, "She's having a baby with Potter, did you know that?"

"I know," he responds sourly.

"How did you know?"

"I heard it from Lupin."

Neither of them speak for a few tense moments, wherein he is certain that she still has more to say.

"She asked me how you were," she says.

Lily still thinks that the two of them are seeing each other steadily. He'd asked Lupin to tell her that they were, rather than letting her know the truth about his relationship with her sister, in order to keep the promise he'd made to Petunia on that long-ago summer night.

She seems to be waiting for a response from him, so he asks, "What did you tell her?"

"I said that you were fine, still working at the apothecary shop." She shoots him a sly look before adding, "Still not washing your hair often enough."

She's certainly doing better if she feels well enough to tease him. The corners of his mouth twitch into something that almost resembles a smile, although he is quick to hide it from her.

She glances at the clock with a frown and says, "I need to leave soon."

"I want you to stay," he blurts out, something he's never had the courage to say before, no matter how often he's thought it.

She lays her hand on his arm and says softly, "I'll be back later. I have to get to work. I can't be late."

"You have a job?" he asks in surprise.

"Yes, as a secretary. It's not the best, but I can take care of myself now."

Which was more than she could have said for herself in the past.

_Like an angel with two broken wings reaching toward the sky again_.

"I'll see you tonight?" he says, his uncertainty making it sound more like a question. He still isn't used to this whole  _communicating verbally_  thing.

"Unless you go blind by then, or I turn invisible," she says, smirking, as she gathers the breakfast dishes and takes them to the sink.

He is even less used to people joking with him than he is at talking in general, and has less idea how to respond to that than anything else she's said.

When she starts to fill the sink with water, he tells her, "Leave it. I'll take care of them." He doesn't bother telling her that he'll do it by magic, which is quicker and easier than her way. "You don't want to be late for work, my angel." The endearment is spiced with just the right amount of sarcasm to sound neither entirely serious nor entirely insulting.

"You don't want to be late, either," she says, coming over to kiss his cheek before she leaves. "My  _devil,"_  she whispers.

~end~

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The line "Like an angel..." is paraphrased from the song "The Nephilim" by AFI. (Nephilim are fallen angels.)


End file.
